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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296791">The Nightmare and the Yak Polar Bear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter'>prettyboyporter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:42:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On Halloween Eve, a movie triggers Billy into reliving his death at Starcourt. Steve comes to help and comfort Billy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>169</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Nightmare and the Yak Polar Bear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Halloween! This is about as close as I can get to writing angst, lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a truth universally acknowledged in Hawkins, that a single man in possession of HBO, must be in want of company. </p><p>That truth was a pain in Billy’s ass.</p><p>Because in this little town, if a person had HBO, that meant they enjoyed living <i>extravagantly</i>. There was some kind of odd standoff where no one wanted to shell out the extra money each month for a premium channel when you could find programming that was good enough on all of the other channels. Rural city life was about everything being adequate. Making do. </p><p>Ordering a premium cable channel was the kind of thing people from Indianapolis did. </p><p>Even the Harringtons didn’t have HBO. And definitely none of the kids in the Party did -- even the Wheelers. </p><p>Billy found the mass reluctance to subscribe to premium programming weird. But that’s how Mike Wheeler ended up jammed up on Billy’s tiny couch with Max, Henderson and Sinclair the night before Halloween watching <i>Fright Night</i>. </p><p>“The parents have made some sort of dumbass pact, or something,” Wheeler explained as he fended off Sinclair’s knee for more real estate on the couch. “I asked my dad if we could order it and he lectured me for a half an hour about <i>fiscal responsibility</i> and <i>budgeting</i> and told me that if I wanted something as unnecessary as HBO, that I’d have to get a paper route.” His face screwed up as if he’d just smelled something offensive. “<i>Me</i>. With a paper route.” </p><p>Billy shrugged and took a drag off of his smoke. “Get a goddamn paper route and earn your keep. Jesus you’re spoiled.” </p><p>Wheeler scowled. “How can you possibly be on my dad’s side on this? You’re, like, the opposite of all of the dads in this town. The anti-dad.” </p><p>“I’m the fucker who lets you nerds crash on my couch and watch your goddamn science fiction bullshit twice a week, so. Like. Show some appreciation.” </p><p>Henderson chucked a mini-Snickers bar at Billy. “We bring you candy and our charming wit out of gratitude. What more could a man want out of life? At least you’re not trying to weasel a date with Nancy out of us.” </p><p>Wheeler looked affronted. “I thought I told you never to bring up the Keith thing again.” </p><p>Henderson barked a laugh. “As if he could get his orange-dusted fingers anywhere near Nancy.” He turned his attention back to Billy. “And don’t act like you don’t like Ray Bradbury Theater. I’ve seen you watching it.” </p><p>“Never,” Billy said. It was a bold-faced lie. He loved science fiction -- not that he’d ever admit that out loud to these kids. “And how do you know I’m not secretly after she-Wheeler? I’m just playing the long game. Just waiting to get a peek at those white cotton panties with the little pink bow on the front.” Billy winked at Wheeler. </p><p>Wheeler threw the remote at Billy’s head. </p><p>It did hurt a little bit, but Billy cackled anyway while Max muttered, “worse than Keith. Brothers are so gross.” </p><p>The HBO Feature Presentation theme song intro started playing, signaling that it was time to shut the fuck up. Sometimes Billy retreated to his bedroom at that point to give them some space -- but lately he’d been wandering out part way through whatever show or movie they were watching to join them. </p><p>Tonight, he didn’t even pretend. <i>Fright Night</i> started, and Billy stayed. He passed the kids a bowl of popcorn and brought out some bottles of Coke, turning off the lamp. </p><p>When the kids left later on, Henderson stopped outside of the door to stare down at his own feet and stuttered out, “You know, I used to be scared of you. But -- now I know that I was wrong. About you. And about how you are in general. I just wanted to say thanks for letting us come over. It’s really cool of you.” </p><p>Billy flicked Henderson’s cap. “Sure, kid. Just don’t abuse it. I might have chicks over and I don’t need you little twirps cramping my style.” </p><p>Henderson laughed, a bright grin on his face. “Chicks! Suure. It’ll be a cold day at Mount Doom before I’d believe there are chicks here. The only other person I’ve seen here besides us is Steve Harrington. Can’t have chicks over with you’re with your best friend like, 24/7.” </p><p>Billy’s stomach fluttered. “Yeah. You gotta point there, Henderson.” </p><p>“Seriously. You guys are inseparable. It’s kinda weird.” </p><p>“Uh huh. Yep” </p><p>“Is he coming over tonight?” </p><p>Billy nodded. “Mmhmm.” </p><p>“Not gonna score if Steve’s here. You should tell him to take a night off.” </p><p>Billy sighed. He wished he <i>could</i> score with Steve there. Obviously. “Henderson.”</p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>“Your fellow freaks are waiting for you.” </p><p>Henderson turned around and Wheeler raised both hands up in an impatient gesture while Lucas and Max just looked painfully bored. “Oh! Oops. Yeah. Seeya, Billy.” </p><p>“Adiós, compadre.” </p><p>Billy watched as the four of them peddled down the road, knowing it wouldn’t be long before one of them would end up with a car. Driver’s permits would happen within the next year, and Max had actually already started saving for a car from her part-time job at the Frosty Freeze. </p><p>Suddenly, Billy felt old, even at only 18 years old.</p><p>After he closed the door, his place felt quiet. Kind of eerie, if he was being honest. Too much silence sometimes left Billy in a bad mental place, alone with ghosts that still haunted his mind. He turned up the volume on the TV again, took the bottles and dishes to the kitchen, and settled in on the couch to catch whatever the next film was on TV. </p><p>His mind wandered a bit, not really focused on Kurt Russell on the screen, but ruminating on the turn of events in his life over the last few months since Starcourt. His job as a chef at Sinclair’s Fine Dining and his government hush money paycheck afforded him this decent apartment, the new TV/VCR combo, a good sound system, as well as the much sought after HBO subscription. He could afford to repair his car whenever he needed, purchase cassette and VHS tapes at his pleasure, buy the kids pizza once or twice a week, and occasionally treat a friend to a nice dinner in a restaurant that served food on plates, not in red baskets. </p><p>That friend was Steve. Steve was the <i>only</i> one Billy was taking to eat at the steakhouse up US-131 or, one memorable time, to a kind of fancy restaurant up in Indianapolis. After their dinners, Steve would say “thanks,” when he left Billy’s after coming in for a beer, blushing up to the tips of his ears, hovering in the doorway and looking like he always wanted to turn around and say something else. </p><p>It felt like whatever this thing that was happening with Steve was a cinder on the verge of catching fire. Every time they sat on Billy’s couch, they sat too close together. When they went to hang up the phone, one of them would find something else to talk about and they’d hang on the phone with each other for hours. Their sarcastic tones grew soft with each other. </p><p>And -- most importantly -- Billy had noticed that Steve had started to look at Billy the same way he’d looked at Nancy, with lingering gazes and half-lidded eyes. </p><p>As he started to think about maybe taking a shower before Steve came over, the movie on TV caught his eye. It was <i>The Thing</i> -- he’d snuck in to see it when first came out back in California at too young of an age. It had been a few years since he’d seen it. </p><p>The scene on the TV was in a kennel in Antarctica. The dogs in the kennel snarled and barked when suddenly one dog’s face peeled open into fleshy, horrific-looking petals. Tentacles spilled from its mouth and spiked crustacean-legs emerged from its back. It transformed into a monster made of pulsating flesh, shooting tentacles out and devouring all around it. </p><p>Billy felt his heart beating against his sternum and bile rose in his throat. He tried to swallow it down and beads of sweat formed along his forehead. The world around him became fuzzy. He closed his eyes against it, but that only made him see it all the clearer. </p><p>All he could see was the mindflayer. </p><p>In front of his mind’s eye it looked two stories high, a looming terror of biomass. Flesh and bones protruded from its spider-like legs thick as telephone poles. It leaned down and roared at Billy, and its face split  open like a fanged venus fly trap. </p><p>And when Billy put his fists to stop it, pain ensued -- it was a piercing pain like he’d never felt, not when Neil hit him, not when he’d crashed the Camaro, but a hot sensation, a thousand lightning strikes all over his abdomen, sides, and back. </p><p>He felt the wind knocked out of him. He rallied to shout in this monster’s face one last time before it dealt its final blow, and that was it -- Billy was tossed like a doll to the floor choking on his own rotten blood and begging for Max’s forgiveness. </p><p>His mind stayed there. </p><p>His mind kept him lying on the mall floor looking up at Max’s weeping face as he struggled and gurgled, trying to talk to her -- trying to make it right as he felt the life leaving his body. </p><p>He knew he’d die. </p><p>The scene replayed in his head over and over, as if someone hit the rewind button on a VHS tape. The events zipped backward at comical speed, then replayed over and over again, getting skewered and feeling searing pain over and over. It didn’t matter if he kept his eyes closed or if he opened them. He still saw the same thing. </p><p>Billy became dimly aware that he moved to the back corner of his bedroom, into the tight space between his bed and the wall. He sat in the corner with his knees drawn to his chest in the darkness -- the only light came from the flickering TV down the hall. </p><p>He felt tears, hot and wet down his cheek, down his neck, and pooling into the material of his t-shirt. </p><p>“I’m sorry Max,” he said out loud. Maybe if he said it enough, right now, he could make it right. Maybe he could make up for how he couldn’t get the words out quite right at the end there because he was dying. “I’m so sorry.” </p><p>His voice cracked -- it sounded thick and foreign to his own ears. </p><p>He sobbed, his chest aching with the movement. The pain of the sob was only exacerbated by the soreness of his freshly-healed chest injuries. “I fucked up. I fucked up,” he said. “Fucked up so bad.” </p><p>Max flicked in front of his eyes -- angry, flipping him off as he peeled away. Billy felt the sting of regret deep in his chest, down into his stomach. Then Steve’s face, bloody on the Byers’ floor under him appeared as he punched Steve’s face over and over. </p><p>“Fucked up so bad. I’m sorry,” he repeated. If he could get it just right, make the apology <i>just so</i>, maybe he could find his way out of this hell that his mind had trapped him in. </p><p>He felt the tightness of the space around him and curled into it -- huddled in on himself, hoping if he could come back to earth, it would all stop. Anything to make him feel grounded. </p><p>“Billy?” Steve’s voice sounded far away, as if he were calling to Billy from the surface of the moon. “Billy, what’s wrong? Billy.” </p><p>Billy couldn’t see Steve -- images of Starcourt floated in front of his eyes -- pause, rewind, slow motion, pain and horror and grief. But he still turned his face toward the sound of Steve’s voice. </p><p>“Hey. I’m here,” Steve said. His voice was much closer. </p><p>Billy closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. The monster struck him again -- rewind, repeat. He wondered if he had died and gone to hell for his sins. “I’m sorry. Steve, I fucked up. I’m so sorry.” His voice rose at the end, obscured by a sob. </p><p>And then he felt two arms around his shoulders, pulling him forward. Steve’s hands were flat on Billy’s back, strong and reassuring. “You’re alright,” Steve said as he pressed his face to Billy’s shoulder.</p><p>Billy mimicked the movement and inhaled the skin at the base of Steve’s neck, heady and musky. </p><p>“You’re alright, Billy. It’s okay, it’s okay. I got you.” Steve’s voice was pitched a little higher, etched with concern. </p><p>Billy clutched tightly around Steve’s abdomen. The nightmare loop in his head continued. “If I could just. I don’t fuckin know. Make it <i>right</i>, it would stop.” </p><p>“Hey. Listen to me.” Steve’s words fanned over the skin of Billy’s shoulder, down his back. Goosebumps formed -- he hoped Steve wouldn’t see them. “You have <i>nothing</i> to apologize for. I forgave you long ago. High school already feels like a million years ago.” </p><p>Billy nodded and his sobs calmed into hiccups. The images in his mind of lying gurgling on the floor of the mall started breaking, and he saw flashes of the dark blue vest Steve was wearing. </p><p>“We all did dumb shit in high school. God I was such a fucking dick. I have a lot to apologize for, too. But me and you, Bills? We’re <i>good</i>.” </p><p>Billy closed his eyes. When he opened them again, all he saw was Steve’s back and his bedroom floor. “Yeah.” </p><p>“We’re so good,” Steve said. He pulled Billy closer so that Billy’s knees were half on top of Steve’s. </p><p>Steve’s index finger started to stroke the back of Billy’s neck, just touching the curls starting to grow there again from the accident. </p><p>“Yeah. We’re good,” Billy agreed. Packed into that statement were so many things. </p><p><i>We’re good</i> was how Billy leaned against the counter at Family video as Robin thumbed through an Entertainment Weekly while Steve leaned over to talk shit with Billy about what old Mrs. Gunderson was complaining about now. Billy smiled and nodded while his eyes were trained on the arch of Steve’s eyebrow -- the stubble on his jaw. </p><p>It meant that they shared a joint sitting on Billy’s living room floor dotted with boxes, limbs sore from spending all day moving. It wasn’t like he had a <i>lot</i> of stuff -- mostly a hodgepodge of donated items -- but toting them up two flights of narrow stairs meant legs like jello. His sore thigh pressed to Steve’s -- hot under the denim, loose from the weed, wanting to lean harder against Steve’s shoulder. </p><p>It was how Steve rubbed cocoa butter on Billy’s scars, fingers tentative and soft, gradually growing more firm in their touch when Billy leaned into it and Steve moved closer, bed dipping with Steve’s weight right behind Billy’s ass. Close enough that Billy felt Steve’s breath lightly across the bare skin of his back. <i>They feel kinda cool, y’know. Your scars</i>, Steve had said. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the way Steve said them, that made Billy feel sexy that night. </p><p>It was watching Max teach Steve to skateboard, and then watching Steve eat pavement and play it off like a tough guy in front of Max. Billy later put a bandaid on Steve’s knee, insisting in a silly moment that he was a lifeguard and knew first aid so he should be the one to clean and dress Steve’s wound. Steve watched him do it with half-lidded eyes and pink cheeks while he whined about how badly it stung. Billy was tempted to kiss the booboo.</p><p>“We’re <i>really</i> good,” Steve said. His fingers traced Billy’s jaw and his eyes fell to Billy’s lips. </p><p>Billy felt weightless. He felt like he might float away if Steve’s hands weren’t on him. He had enough time to think <i>here comes the fire. Here comes the beginning,</i> and then Steve leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly to Billy’s. </p><p>Steve kissed with conviction. Steve kissed like no one else was on the face of the earth, like it didn’t matter that Billy was snotty and was hiding in the corner of his room with his heart on display. Steve kissed like he meant it -- every slide of his lips felt like he’d been dreaming about this moment, that he had something to prove. </p><p>Billy was helpless against Steve’s mouth. His lips, his tongue sliding against Billy’s, his hand on the back of Billy’s neck, sliding over his shoulder, coming down to rest over Billy’s heart and <i>press</i> there. All Billy could do was grip Steve, hold on for dear life, kiss back as best he could and match Steve’s enthusiasm. He ended up half-straddling Steve’s lap. </p><p>Eventually, Steve pulled away from Billy’s lips. His mouth was swollen and red, and he looked dazed. “Do you want me to stay, tonight? I don’t mean like <i>that</i>. Like. I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight.” </p><p>Billy pressed another kiss to Steve’s lips.  “Yeah. Stay.” </p><p>Steve slept wrapped around Billy’s back, his fingers tracing the scars on Billy’s abdomen as Billy described the panic attack. Steve listened, kissed Billy’s shoulder when he described the sensations he’d experienced, and held him tight when Billy choked up saying that he’d felt like a prisoner in his own mind. </p><p>Eventually the night fell quiet around him as he found peace in Steve’s arms. </p><p>“You can hang out here tomorrow. If you don’t have any Halloween plans,” Billy said. “I don’t think I’ll be up for watching any scary movies though.” </p><p>Steve shrugged. “I have all three Star Wars movies in my car. Thought you might be up for watching those. You have that poster of the yak polar bear.” </p><p>Billy turned to look at Steve’s face. “Yak polar bear? Are you serious? Are you talking about a goddamn <i>tauntaun</i>?” </p><p>Steve looked up wide-eyed. “Is -- is that the yak polar bear?” </p><p>In that moment, Billy felt in danger of handing his heart to Steve on a platter. “Yeah. The yak polar bear.” </p><p>Steve smiled, and Billy settled back against Steve’s chest. </p><p>Billy’s first Halloween on his own turned out to be his best one yet -- no costume, no parties, just Steve and a blanket with a giant bowl of popcorn on Billy’s couch.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>prettyboyporter on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
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